


Of Course the Color of the Dress Matters

by Ribbons_Undone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Kate Blanchett, Kissing, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26377768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbons_Undone/pseuds/Ribbons_Undone
Summary: Dean looks nothing like Michael. Sure he might be a blond, but his hair is no way near that long or flowy.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Of Course the Color of the Dress Matters

**Author's Note:**

> Episode Tag 5x01.
> 
> This entire fic is for the punchline.

* * *

It’s been a very weird day. Not that _weird_ isn’t anything new in the Crappy Life of Dean and Sam, but this one might take the cake, all things considered. Dean’s throwing in his vote pretty hard here.

He’s Michael’s sword. _Dean_ is. Not some magical hunk of steel that was tempered from God’s asshole, or forged in some fairy-lake blessed by frolicking nuns…no. It couldn’t be that easy. It could never be _that_ easy for them. Because when is it ever?

The only upside to the day—the _only_ one, and it’s a pretty big upside if he’s honest—is that Cas is okay. When Chuck gave them the news that Cas blew angel chunks all over the writer/prophet’s house, Dean pretty much accepted the fact that they had just started to become buddies and he was already forced to say goodbye. And yeah, it sucked—missed opportunities and all that—but Cas hasn’t been around that long so maybe his loss didn’t hit as hard as it should have. Maybe Dean’s still reeling from the fact that there’s an _apocalypse_ to deal with now.

But before he’s able to process anything Cas shows up and he’s okay. He’s _alive_. And Dean realizes it wasn’t lack of caring that kept him from feeling the hit of his ‘demise’, it had been numb shock. Because _when_ Cas shows up Dean’s heart stutters and then _thuds_ strongly against his chest. He starts to feel again, and it’s not just the after-echo of Zachariah curing him from stage four stomach cancer that’s causing the burst of lightness at the center of him.

“Hey Cas, were you really dead?” Sam asks the angel.

Castiel looks down and answers.

“Yes.”

“Then how are you back?” Dean asks him.

Castiel, the ass—he leaves before dignifying them with an answer. Typical. Dean’s happy to see him for once and he just up and flutters away on his fluffy invisible angel wings of dickatude.

* * *

Sam’s out grabbing them chow, maybe celebrating the fact he has lungs again. Dean’s grabbing a change of clothes before hopping over to the hospital to check on Bobby when Cas shows up again. Dean’s still pretty pissed at him. He’s glad Cas is okay, but he’s pissed. For sure.

“So what, are you part of some…secret mystical club now and you’re not allowed to talk about it?” Dean asks him. Because sarcasm is always better than saying how he really feels.

“Talk about what?” Castiel asks. He gives Dean a confused look, eyes squinting.

“About how you came back from being maggot food,” Dean says. At Castiel’s continued bewildered facial expression, he lets a huff out through his nose and rolls his eyes. “Dead, Cas. You were dead.”

“Oh,” Cas says. “No.”

“Then why did you leave?” Dean demands. He’s still pretty pissed.

“I…did not have an answer for you,” Castiel says, like that explains everything.

“And you couldn’t have just _said_ that?” Dean shoots back. “You had to flutter away instead?”

“It…didn’t occur to me…” Castiel trails off. His brow is pinched together, as though he is attempting to yet again understand the intricacies of human interaction and he’s failing miserably, as always.

“Pretty dick move, flapping away in the middle of a conversation, Cas,” Dean chides him. Like he’s five and not…millennia old.

“My apologies,” Cas says.

“Cuz you know, I had other questions to ask you,” Dean continues.

Castiel nods slowly.

“I will do my best to answer them,” he promises.

And, okay, maybe Dean is being a bit hard on the guy. He _did_ just come back from the dead. He deserves a day off. Hell, they all do.

“So… I’m Michael’s sword?” he asks anyway.

“It seems so, yes,” Castiel replies.

“I don’t exactly have flowing golden locks like in all the pictures,” Dean points out, “So maybe you guys got it wrong? Maybe I’m not Michael’s vessel.”

“The appearance of the vessel is not important,” Castiel tells him, “Dean, it is in your blood.” His head is tilted up at Dean as he does when he’s saying something really important and he’s trying to look ‘authoritative’ or some bullshit. Instead it just makes him look like he’s compensating for that one inch Dean has on him.

“Oh that’s just peachy,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Just what I always wanted. For some angel to wear my skin like a slinky red dress.”

“Is the…color of the dress important?” Castiel asks. He seems confused by Dean’s words, which is exactly why Dean said it the way he did. Just to see that hilarious look of bewilderment on Castiel’s otherwise Serious Business face, because his life sucks and he figures he deserves _some_ form of entertainment.

“You tell me, Cas,” Dean says. This conversation seems like it’s going to take a while, so he grabs a beer from the fridge. The bottles inside clink together like bells as he slams it shut. He sits down hard in the motel chair with the bottle in hand and sets it on the table. “What color would _you_ prefer I slip into for _Michael’s_ enjoyment?”

“I fail to see how my opinion is…” Castiel breaks off and starts again. “Dean, it will be anything but enjoyable.”

Dean sighs and clips the cap off his beer with his pocket knife, slouching down in the chair.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” he says. For once sarcasm doesn’t make an appearance.

“I am sorry, Dean,” Castiel says. The angel carefully takes the seat across from him at the table. He looks down at his hands, and he actually _does_ look apologetic. “If I knew of another way to stop Lucifer…”

“There’s got to be another way,” Dean insists.

Castiel is still for a long moment.

“Perhaps,” he says next. And okay, Dean hadn’t expected that. He’d expected another lame apology, or a quotation of scripture— _something—_ not Cas agreeing with him. Castiel continues. “If anyone can find the alternative in this situation…I believe you can.”

Castiel looks up at him suddenly, and Dean feels a little heat rush into his face. He takes a gulp of beer and swallows the feeling down. Only Cas is still peering at him with impossibly blue eyes—like, really, could they be made of stained glass? They don’t look _real_. The feeling leaves him a little breathless and Dean’s pulse picks up a notch because Castiel’s eyes are _really fucking distracting_.

He slams the bottle down and stands up abruptly, agitated. He takes a few quick steps across the room. He runs a hand through his hair, then returns the way he came. Castiel is still looking at him with the same measured intensity when he does.

He’s destined to become some archangel’s bitch.

Dean laughs. There’s irony there. A lot of it, and…yeah, it’s funny as hell.

He might not even survive that long, so what does he care anyway?

More than anything right now, Dean just wants a little…distraction. He wants a perfect distraction in this exact moment so that he doesn’t have to think about how screwy his life has become.

“You are upset,” Castiel says suddenly. His eyes are so full of compassion, it almost hurts to look at him.

“Oh, I’m a lot more than that,” Dean assures him. “I’m _pissed_. No, not even that. I’m done. I’m just fuckin’… _done,_ man.”

Dean stands in front of Cas with what he figures is a pretty lost and pathetic look on his face, but he can’t bring himself to care right about now.

Castiel rises from his seat.

“You should have more faith in yourself,” he says.

“Cas—”

Dean’s lips tremble when he says his name. He grabs the angel by the wrist and moves them, trying to form words but he can’t. There aren’t any words for what he’s feeling right now. Because all of a sudden it hits him—Cas nearly dying, his own grisly demise on the horizon, and who the hell knows how much time they’ve got left.

So instead he pulls Cas a little closer, leans in and presses his lips against Castiel’s slightly open mouth.

He doesn’t expect a response. If anything he expects to be suddenly left alone in the motel room awkwardly kissing the air. Instead Castiel’s mouth drops open a little and Dean uses it as an excuse to press in further. He drags Castiel’s mouth wider with his lips and slips his tongue into it.

Castiel’s tongue is hot and waiting, and it rolls against Dean’s in a flash of eager desire that he _never_ —not in a million years—expected from the angel. Cas makes a noise low in his throat, like a growl, and then there’s a hand at the back of Dean’s head, gripping it so tightly it almost hurts.

Castiel pulls back from the kiss forcefully. His lips are blushed pink and wet, his blue eyes wide and fierce as he peers at Dean. There’s a line of bewilderment in them as well, as though Castiel is trying to understand what has just happened between them.

“You are…using me as a distraction,” the angel says after a moment, “So that we do not have to talk about Michael.”

Dean flashes him flirtatious smile and blinks slowly at him.

“Is it working?” he asks.

Castiel’s eyes flicker down to his lips.

“Yes,” he answers.

Dean doesn’t see the kiss coming, but suddenly his mouth is hot and heavy with the taste of _angel_. It’s electric, the kiss, and it leaves his mouth tingling afterwards.

There’s a truly goofy smile on Dean’s face when Castiel pulls back.

“Does this make me Kate Blanchett?” 


End file.
